Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  And the birds.

  Matthew glances around to check he is not being watched then reaches down inside the sleeping bag to find his wallet, tucked into his back pocket. He has just thirty five pounds left; enough still to set him apart from the others. Enough still to go home. To give this up. But not a lot now to separate him from his choice.

  Above him the trees shiver in the cold wind and then, through the leaves, Matthew watches his father’s eyes glaring at him. His mother a step behind – her eyes softer but red-rimmed from crying, the pupils large and pleading.

  ‘You choose, Matthew.’ His father’s voice – so angry. ‘You and your bloody music. You go and you bloody well choose, son.’

  And then their faces dissolve into the pattern of clouds against a cold, blue sky. Matthew sits up and hugs his knees to his chest, still zipped inside the warmth of his sleeping bag as the birds continue their melody.

  Twenty years he has lived with his perfect pitch, never questioning its origin. But now things are different. And Matthew’s father is wrong.

  There is no choice.

  3

  ‘You haven’t forgotten tonight?’ Toby’s voice is distorted, followed by the sound of gargling and spitting.

  Damn. The party. Kate clicks the front door shut behind her and throws her keys onto the hall table – too hard so that she watches, helpless, as they slide across the polished surface and fall onto the carpet. She meant to pick up her dress from the dry-cleaner’s. The clock, just visible through the door ajar into the kitchen, confirms it is too late now. 5.30pm. The shop shut. Her mind is whizzing through her wardrobe as Toby, teeth finished, emerges from the bathroom at the top of the stairs, rubbing his hair with a towel as he looks down at her.

  ‘So how was the library?’

  ‘What?’ Kate feels her brow tense as she leans to pick up the keys, still mentally trawling through her rack of clothes.

  ‘The library? How’s it going? The research?’

  The calm of the sea air slipping away – the familiar anxiety seeping slowly back into its place. She breathes slowly. ‘Oh fine. Fine. Quite busy today.’ She can wear the red dress. Yes. It is clean. It will do.

  Toby begins rubbing his hair again.

  ‘I thought you were picking up your dress?’

  Kate reaches for the post stacked alongside her keys on the table, to avoid her husband’s eyes.

  ‘Decided black was too formal. I’m going to wear the red.’

  She is already heading through to the kitchen, clutching the letters and weaving her way around the three packing boxes stacked beside the understairs cupboard.

  ‘I said we’d be early, if that’s all right?’ Toby’s voice crescendoes down the stairs with his footsteps as he follows her. ‘About seven. Shall I run you a bath?’

  ‘I’ll shower.’

  Black.

  White.

  Yes.

  No.

  Toby stares at his wife.

  ‘Fine.’

  She does not look back at him, thinking instead of the time, forever ago, in a different life and in a different bed that smelled of their flesh and their sweat and their longing. That different world in which he told her, time and time over, their limbs interwoven, of that very first time he stared.

  The story of how he watched her across the room of the party at her shared flat, the night they met; utterly transfixed as she danced. She had noticed him too, but remembered it quite differently. She had thought, you see, that she was the one who had been sneaking glances. But no.

  Apparently, from across the room, he had been watching her too; mesmerised as she danced – a drink still in her hand, eyes closed, which was why she did not realise. He had remembered very precisely what she was wearing. Dark jeans and a cream linen top with a long line of tiny buttons down the front. In bed in those early days he would trace his finger down her flesh, explaining how he had dreamt of doing this as he stared at the buttons that first evening, wondering if the top pulled over her head or if the buttons would have to be undone.

  One by one.

  He told her that he had never imagined he would get the chance to find out.

  A friend who had watched him staring and staring as she danced had been blunt. ‘Out of your league, Toby.’ Kate had been described then as choosy. Difficult. The truth, over which they later laughed, was Kate had knocked this friend back.

  For herself Kate remembered only that she was surprised how few people she knew at the party – most invited by her flatmates. And then, as she decided on fresh air, she noticed this tall and slightly aloof man standing on his own. Lovely eyes.

  Later he would tell her that she reminded him of a painting. He was looking at her hair…

  She called it frizzy. He called it pre-Raphaelite.

  Kate, having no idea yet of his interest, had hatched a plan to escape the heat. She fetched a kite from her room and asked if he would like to fly it with her – worrying then, even as she shaped the words, that this sounded too contrived. When, in fact, the truth was she genuinely liked kites – had a collection of four or five. Old-fashioned kites with wooden frames in bright, childhood colours. Red, green, yellow and blue. She told him there was a beautiful common just a few minutes away. And the wind was perfect.

  ‘I’m Kate.’

  ‘Toby.’

  Both staring then. Eyes locking for the first time – each of them separately and secretly – hoping and daring to imagine.

  Toby looking at those buttons…

  * * *

  Across the room at this new and very different party, she can feel him watching her again in the red dress. But this time not with longing – instead with a new and now familiar look of helpless concern which these days she so hates.

  She is drinking too much, this she knows – can hear her own laughter just that little bit too loud. Two glasses of champagne. Three.

  At one point she catches Toby’s new business partner Mark exchanging a worried look with his wife and so she switches to water and escapes to the hall, leaning back against the wall. Fresh paint. A tad chalky against her bare shoulder. She strokes the wall, feeling the soft dust. Limewash? Yes. She recognises it from samples she had painted on a wall upstairs in their old home. Never finished…

  She thinks she is alone; thinks she has stolen another moment. Like on the bus with the gulls and the guide and her ridiculous hessian bags.

  And then she sees Toby watching her through a mirror at the other end of the hallway and she can hear the echo of his voice from last night, lying in their sad crisp, cotton pyjamas; same bed but a million miles apart now.

  ‘It’s no good just pretending it didn’t happen, Kate.’ That awful look in his eyes; the realisation that he knows exactly what she is doing. In this new place with these new people.

  In their shiny new house with the three, terrible boxes still unpacked in the hall. On her bus with all the imaginary swimming. And the endless searching…

  ‘We can’t just pretend it didn’t happen, Kate. It won’t work. Shutting it down. Pretending it didn’t happen. That’s not going to work.’

  4

  Matthew examines the distinctive coffee shop logo on his bright red mug then turns back to his paper – fidgeting with the highlighter pen in his left hand. He scans the catering section first. Can he bluff his way as a chef? Probably not. Silver-service waiter? At a push. Dishwasher? Certainly. Matthew draws a box around two adverts which look promising and sips his drink.

  He will need to smarten himself up. Take another swim at the local leisure centre for the excuse to use the showers ahead of any interviews, but is hopeful. Yes. He needs a job fast, one which will not check background too closely, and he will have to find somewhere to stay too. Catering offers the best chance of a room thrown in, but if that isn’t an option he will try meantime for a hostel bed. Sleeping rough is no longer a runner. He is less streetwise than he supposed – discovering only when he returned to the bus station that the park he
used last night was a regular pick-up point. A couple of lads, mistaken for prostitutes, were beaten up there only the previous month.

  After finishing with his paper, Matthew turns to his map and finds the site easily. The now derelict Millrose Mount Hospital – to be renamed Millrose Mount Village – is about two miles out of town.

  His mother gave him the name. After the row. You won’t tell your father. He’ll kill me, Matthew. He made me promise…

  He stares at the folds on the map and tries to picture how patients might have arrived there in the past. Van? Sedated? Straitjacket? He can conjure only extreme pictures. The truth of his connection here still so impossible to give shape.

  Matthew folds the map and decides to walk. Save the bus fare. No surprise there is only one route in and out, and on the long, steep approach road he is thinking about all his research at the library. The papers written by the architect who designed this place. He is wondering, most of all now, if the huge portal entrance looked to those patients in the past as it looks to him now. Like an enormous mouth.

  Screaming.

  And then he sees the phone box opposite Millrose Mount. Checks his watch. Decides – yes. Is soon inside tapping his foot, waiting for someone to pick up, praying it will not be his father.

  ‘Hello. Mum?’

  ‘Matthew. Matthew, is that really you, love?’

  There is a clatter of something falling to the floor. He imagines a tin of polish. Duster in her hand. Always with the dusting…

  Then bleeping. The machine is impatient. Wants more money now. Matthew drops his coins in his panic and almost loses the connection as he crouches, scrabbling for the money and managing finally to slot a ten pence into the opening.

  ‘Hello? Hello? Matthew… are you still there?’

  ‘Yes – Mum. It’s all right. Listen – I just wanted you to know I’m all right.’

  There is sniffing now at the end of the line and Matthew can picture her exactly – her left fist clenched and tap tapping away at her jaw.

  ‘You’re coming home, love? Yes? You’re coming home?’ He imagines a duster scrunched into a tight, tight ball in her hand, her voice rising higher and higher.

  Again the blessed beeping. This time Matthew shovels in one, two, three coins.

  ‘Is he there? Is Dad there?’

  More sniffing.

  ‘No. He’s out.’

  ‘And has he calmed down?’

  Silence.

  ‘He’ll come round, Matthew. If you’ll just come home, love.’

  Matthew’s lower lip is trembling and he has to use his teeth to steady the flesh, biting just hard enough for it to hurt.

  He wants still to be angry with her. Not to miss her so much. Not to be so bloody afraid.

  ‘Just tell me where you are, love. I’ve been frantic. We’ll come and get you. Yes?’

  Matthew can hardly bear the pain in her voice. And for a moment she is standing right there in front of him, smiling as she straightens his tie for school. There. She kisses his forehead and runs her fingers through his curls. His skin feels wet from her kiss but he does not wipe it.

  He would like to tell her how this really feels. To not know who you are. To stare in the mirror and feel invisible, like a ghost. He would like to ask her straight out how she could do it.

  Lie to him all those years.

  But then the beeping again. And Matthew sees the note. Middle C. Bleep. Bleep. Bleep.

  C C C

  ‘I’ll ring you again…’

  And she is gone. The woman who is not his mother. Not really. And Matthew has absolutely no idea how to feel – the note of the dialling tone held long and harsh now.

  G sharp.

  * * *

  ‘Can I help you?’

  As Matthew leaves the phone box to approach the site office there is a man in the doorway, hands on hips. He is wearing a white hard hat with the logo Millrose Mount Village – a hat which has clearly not been correctly adjusted for his head and perches too high on his brow, making him look ridiculous. He is wearing quite a well-cut suit. Evidently not a builder, then.

  ‘I just wanted to have a look around, if that’s allowed?’

  ‘Sorry?’ the man looks worried. Matthew imagines he may be quickly doing the maths – the mental check that he is too young. To be a former patient.

  ‘My parents are hoping to move to the area. I’m starting college here. We were wondering—’

  ‘So they might be interested in buying one of our conversions?’ The man’s expression changes completely. New best friends.

  ‘Yes. They asked me to call in for a brochure.’

  ‘Oh right. Come this way. Please. Please. Follow me.’

  And now the besuited man is leading Matthew inside the Portakabin where he presses a glossy leaflet into his hand and asks for his parents’ address so that he can post on the full sales pack once it is ready. Expected any day from the printers.

  Matthew says he will arrange for his parents to call in themselves and wonders how long the project is expected to take? He is staring out of the window at the fencing and the skips and, in the distance, two JCBs parked alongside a large mound of gravel.

  ‘A couple of years for all the infrastructure, but we’re thinking that some people will want to do their own design work. Buy off-plan. Work with a blank canvas. The potential is just staggering.’

  ‘And you’ve had much interest? I mean, people don’t mind the history? We just wondered if everyone was comfortable. You know. The idea of it… being a psychiatric place, I mean. In the past.’

  The man grins. ‘Believe me, one day this will be the norm. One day, people won’t blink at the idea. This is the chance to be first. To get in before the prices rocket. Ten, twenty years from now, they’ll be converting old places like this all over the country. And trust me, you won’t find a more impressive building than this one. The design – extraordinary for its day. Really.’

  Matthew smiles. He does not want to give away just how much he already knows about the architectural heritage of this building. But it is not the architecture that interests him. He leafs through the brochure, which assures him that nowhere else can so much floor space be purchased for the money. He is skimming for background on the use of the hospital – its true history – declining tea as he makes it to the final page, his curiosity unsurprisingly disappointed.

  Matthew checks his watch, closes the brochure and makes his excuses. His parents will definitely be in touch. Very soon. And then, in the doorway, as if an afterthought, so as not to arouse too much suspicion. ‘I was wondering about the history of the place? I don’t suppose there are any records? Anyone who used to work up here?’

  The man’s smile fades just a little and he bites his bottom lip, reassessing Matthew.

  ‘You’re not a journalist, are you?’

  ‘Goodness – no. I just thought it might be interesting. If we’re going to be living here one day, I mean.’

  ‘I think there’s stuff in the town library. Quite a lot about the architect. Samuel Cribbs. His papers. They may be able to help.’ The salesman’s tone is cautious now; the hope of commission fading from his face.

  Matthew nods his thanks and reassures that he will pass on the brochure and his card to his parents.

  ‘I’ll get them to give you a call.’

  The man’s weak smile confirms he no longer believes him.

  5

  At the café overlooking the quay Martha is smiling as Kate rushes in – flustered. They have met twice more for tea and coffee at the mobile van – each separately but equally surprised at their strange, and as yet unexplained, rapport. But today Kate has suggested breakfast. The guilty pleasure of a proper fry-up. Indoors. Sit down. Her treat.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry I’m late. Have you ordered, Martha?’

  And then Kate is cross with herself for misjudging the traffic, noticing the fresh stains of egg and ketchup with tiny crumbs of fried bread on the large white platter. Damn.
She planned to pay. Her idea.

  ‘Look – I really am sorry. I’ll settle up. And get more tea… yes?’

  Martha shakes her head. ‘It’s OK, Kate. Taken care of. You get your own.’

  Kate is now puzzled, her brow tensing as a large woman emerges from behind the counter, bumping past her to manoeuvre into the seat next to Martha and with a thud places a large photo album on the table. The woman, sporting enormous sweat stains under each arm matched only in scale by the most extraordinary smile, squeezes Martha’s shoulder and then turns the pages of the album.

  ‘Just look, Martha. So beautiful. How can I thank you?’ A strong Italian accent. Warm, friendly tone.

  Kate leans forward to see, upside down, a series of pictures of a family group standing alongside a font, with a baby draped in a long, white shawl. The woman then narrows her eyes, querying the intrusion.

  ‘I’m sorry. Introductions,’ Martha is smiling. ‘This is Kate – a new friend of mine. Kate – Maria – an old and very dear friend of mine.’

  The two women nod politely.

  ‘Martha knitted the shawl for my granddaughter.’ Maria turns the album so Kate can see properly. A beautiful, highly intricate piece of work like crochet – Kate suddenly understanding the free breakfast.

  ‘You are very welcome, Maria. I’m glad it went so well. And how is the baby?’ Martha is beaming.

  ‘Gorgeous.’ Maria puts one hand to her chest, a long exhalation then. ‘She does not sleep, of course. But these young mothers – they expect too much.’ And then spying the growing queue at the counter, Maria squeezes Martha’s shoulder again before disappearing off to deal with her customers.

  Martha sips some more tea as Kate finally sits.

  ‘So you’re a regular around these parts then, Martha? When you suggested here, I didn’t realise…’

  Kate is now taking in Martha’s transformed appearance – new clothes – still tatty but clean. Her hair washed and loose today, which makes her look much younger – Kate realising that she is probably quite close to her own age. Late thirties. Forty, tops.